“Let’s dance.”
3.
Ash
I don’t dance.
Not at weddings or birthday parties, clubs, or after one too many martinis. Let everyone else make a fool of themselves stumbling over their feet—or worse still, bobbing around waving fake disco moves like they don’t look ridiculous. I prefer to keep my head cool and my dignity intact, so I make it a rule: I don’t dance.
But as this mysterious woman beckons me onto the dance floor with an alluring smile, my feet do the unthinkable.
They follow her.
Before I can think twice, she leads me to an empty spot in the middle of the crowd, and then turns back to me. It feels the most natural thing in the world to slide one hand around her waist, take her hand with my other, and find the music.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You waltz?”
I smile at her surprise, steering her through the throngs in perfect time to the music. “A man needs some skills.”
She laughs. “Let me guess, you learned just to impress the ladies at moments like these.”
“Why, are you impressed?” I pull her imperceptibly closer, so the silk of her dress is crushed against my chest. I can see her cheeks flush below her feathered mask—it’s just like when I held her outside in the street. Except this time, instead of reeling from the chemistry, I feel in perfect control.
Just the way it should be.
“We’ll see how you hold up after a couple of dances,” the woman teases. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint. I’m Noelle, by the way,” she adds.
“Noelle…” I like the way it feels on my lips. Not as good as she did, but close. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Ash.”
I spin her out, then pull her back in, relaxing into the rhythm of the music and the hot sway of her body against mine.
“Look at you,” she laughs. “When did you learn to dance like this?”
“My mom taught me,” I confess. “For my first middle school dance.”
“Aww, cute,” Noelle smiles. “Well, tell her thanks from me, and all the other girls you’ve saved from crushed toes and broken ankles.”
“I will.”
A lump rises in my throat. The memory hits me hard. Me, a gangly kid awkwardly stumbling around the living room as Mom led me through the steps. We worked all afternoon; I was so determined to get it right, but no matter how frustrated I got, Mom calmly walked me through the routine until I was perfect. She was always the patient one, warm and understanding—urging me to do good.
What would she think of you now?
I misstep, landing clumsily.
“Are you OK?” Noelle asks, dragging me back to reality.
“Just fine.” Quickly, I cover by increasing our pace, whirling through the crowd. I pull her in tighter against me and breathe in the intoxicating scent of her perfume. The world finds its balance again. My dark past melts away under the heat of Noelle’s touch, and the teasing sparkle in her eyes, until there’s nothing in the room but the two of us.
She smiles up at me, sliding her hand up my arm. “We could have used a few guys like you for my high school dances.”
“What? I bet they were lining up around the block to partner with you,” I tease.
She snorts. “Sure. Joe Feingold couldn’t wait to grope me by the punch bowl, and Marty Wassersein just loved humping my leg during that Rhianna slow jam.”
I laugh. “Poor guys. That was probably the highlight of their whole lives.”
“For them, maybe.” Noelle smirks. “All those people who say high school is the best time of your life are crazy. You couldn’t pay me to go back there.”
“What about your reunion?” I fall back in the easy rhythm of the dance.
“Skipped it,” she says cheerfully.
“You didn’t want to go back and show everyone how beautiful and successful you are now?” I turn on the charm, expecting smiles and blushing, but instead, she gives me an arch look.
“First, you have no idea how successful I am.”
“And second?” I prompt, enjoying this. I’m not used to a woman who talks back like this: not bitchy and dismissive, but playful. A challenge.
I didn’t get where I am in the world without loving a challenge.
“No second reason,” she decides after a beat. “I’ll allow you the ‘beautiful’ compliment. But just so you know, you only get three, and you’ve already used one up now.”
“Only three compliments? What kind of rule is that?” I protest, laughing.
“A good one.” Noelle gives a playful smile. “Charm is fine in small doses, but guys like you are too smooth. You think flattery means you don’t have to have an actual conversation with anyone.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then stop. She’s right. I’ve gotten in the habit of using compliments like currency, slipping them into the conversation to disarm and placate my dates. I don’t think twice about it anymore—and maybe that’s the problem.
“So, two left,” I say instead. “I guess I better make them count.”
She grins, then looks past me over my shoulder. Her face changes. “No!” She groans. “Quick, hide me!”
Noelle ducks down out of sight. I turn.
“Don’t look!” she yelps.
“What am I not looking at?” I scan the crowd, confused.
Noelle peeks back up. “The guy over by the bar. Pinstripes. Massive chip on his shoulder.”
3.
Ash
I don’t dance.
Not at weddings or birthday parties, clubs, or after one too many martinis. Let everyone else make a fool of themselves stumbling over their feet—or worse still, bobbing around waving fake disco moves like they don’t look ridiculous. I prefer to keep my head cool and my dignity intact, so I make it a rule: I don’t dance.
But as this mysterious woman beckons me onto the dance floor with an alluring smile, my feet do the unthinkable.
They follow her.
Before I can think twice, she leads me to an empty spot in the middle of the crowd, and then turns back to me. It feels the most natural thing in the world to slide one hand around her waist, take her hand with my other, and find the music.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “You waltz?”
I smile at her surprise, steering her through the throngs in perfect time to the music. “A man needs some skills.”
She laughs. “Let me guess, you learned just to impress the ladies at moments like these.”
“Why, are you impressed?” I pull her imperceptibly closer, so the silk of her dress is crushed against my chest. I can see her cheeks flush below her feathered mask—it’s just like when I held her outside in the street. Except this time, instead of reeling from the chemistry, I feel in perfect control.
Just the way it should be.
“We’ll see how you hold up after a couple of dances,” the woman teases. “It’s a marathon, not a sprint. I’m Noelle, by the way,” she adds.
“Noelle…” I like the way it feels on my lips. Not as good as she did, but close. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Ash.”
I spin her out, then pull her back in, relaxing into the rhythm of the music and the hot sway of her body against mine.
“Look at you,” she laughs. “When did you learn to dance like this?”
“My mom taught me,” I confess. “For my first middle school dance.”
“Aww, cute,” Noelle smiles. “Well, tell her thanks from me, and all the other girls you’ve saved from crushed toes and broken ankles.”
“I will.”
A lump rises in my throat. The memory hits me hard. Me, a gangly kid awkwardly stumbling around the living room as Mom led me through the steps. We worked all afternoon; I was so determined to get it right, but no matter how frustrated I got, Mom calmly walked me through the routine until I was perfect. She was always the patient one, warm and understanding—urging me to do good.
What would she think of you now?
I misstep, landing clumsily.
“Are you OK?” Noelle asks, dragging me back to reality.
“Just fine.” Quickly, I cover by increasing our pace, whirling through the crowd. I pull her in tighter against me and breathe in the intoxicating scent of her perfume. The world finds its balance again. My dark past melts away under the heat of Noelle’s touch, and the teasing sparkle in her eyes, until there’s nothing in the room but the two of us.
She smiles up at me, sliding her hand up my arm. “We could have used a few guys like you for my high school dances.”
“What? I bet they were lining up around the block to partner with you,” I tease.
She snorts. “Sure. Joe Feingold couldn’t wait to grope me by the punch bowl, and Marty Wassersein just loved humping my leg during that Rhianna slow jam.”
I laugh. “Poor guys. That was probably the highlight of their whole lives.”
“For them, maybe.” Noelle smirks. “All those people who say high school is the best time of your life are crazy. You couldn’t pay me to go back there.”
“What about your reunion?” I fall back in the easy rhythm of the dance.
“Skipped it,” she says cheerfully.
“You didn’t want to go back and show everyone how beautiful and successful you are now?” I turn on the charm, expecting smiles and blushing, but instead, she gives me an arch look.
“First, you have no idea how successful I am.”
“And second?” I prompt, enjoying this. I’m not used to a woman who talks back like this: not bitchy and dismissive, but playful. A challenge.
I didn’t get where I am in the world without loving a challenge.
“No second reason,” she decides after a beat. “I’ll allow you the ‘beautiful’ compliment. But just so you know, you only get three, and you’ve already used one up now.”
“Only three compliments? What kind of rule is that?” I protest, laughing.
“A good one.” Noelle gives a playful smile. “Charm is fine in small doses, but guys like you are too smooth. You think flattery means you don’t have to have an actual conversation with anyone.”
I open my mouth to protest, but then stop. She’s right. I’ve gotten in the habit of using compliments like currency, slipping them into the conversation to disarm and placate my dates. I don’t think twice about it anymore—and maybe that’s the problem.
“So, two left,” I say instead. “I guess I better make them count.”
She grins, then looks past me over my shoulder. Her face changes. “No!” She groans. “Quick, hide me!”
Noelle ducks down out of sight. I turn.
“Don’t look!” she yelps.
“What am I not looking at?” I scan the crowd, confused.
Noelle peeks back up. “The guy over by the bar. Pinstripes. Massive chip on his shoulder.”
